


Turncloak

by squidproquo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, F/M, The Hound needs better masters, This is SanSan, but Sansa is hardly in it, just so you know, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidproquo/pseuds/squidproquo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the ever-loyal Hound is entrusted with a letter from Tywin Lannister to Walder Frey, he sees a way to keep the vow he made the night of the Battle of Blackwater and get what he wants, both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Behold! By the power vested in me by my own twisted imagination, Sansa is suddenly 17!

The missive is written on vellum – very fine – and sealed with a single drop of blood red wax. Sandor Clegane scowls down at the Lannister lion rampant embedded in it and wonders, not for the first time, what secrets it is guarding. There had been a gleam in Lord Tywin’s typically cold eyes when he’d entrusted the letter to Sandor that tells him it must bode ill for someone. 

The fact that he himself is being sent away from King’s Landing to deliver the message isn’t necessarily indicative of anything; apparently, telling the king to go fuck himself in the midst of a battle constitutes resignation from the “sworn brotherhood” of the Kingsguard, and now his duties are far more varied than they ever were as Joffrey’s shield. But the fact that he is to deliver it personally to Lord Frey, supposed loyal supporter of Robb Stark, King in the North… He is no raven to fly to the Twins on dark wings, yet he knows Tywin’s words must be dark nevertheless.

He tucks the folded parchment away inside his cloak, though his fingers linger on the folded edge a moment longer than necessary, practically trying to discern words through touch. The letter makes him uneasy, sits heavily in his hidden pocket, a weight on his chest. It feels like guilt, or what he imagines guilt must feel like, unfamiliar as he is with that emotion.

Why should he be familiar with it? He is loyal. He is true. Temporary wildfire-induced insanity aside, he’s done everything his masters have ever asked of him, and delivering this message will be no different. Can be no different. It’s no hair off his arse if Tywin’s plots target King Robb, as seems likely. What use has he for a King in the North when he hails from the Westerlands and serves the King on the Iron Throne?

And yet there is a sick and confusing ache in the pit of his stomach that tells him carrying the missive is somehow a betrayal, an ache no amount of wine has thus far been sufficient to dull.

He ignores it as best he can as he makes his way through the middle bailey. The hour grows late and he has preparations to make for his departure on the morrow, preparations that loitering near the entrance of the godswood as he has been the past half hour does nothing to advance. If he were to keep gods, which he does not, he wouldn’t choose a mystical tree god anyway.

It is when his gaze unwillingly drifts back to that sacred place for one last glimpse that he finds himself colliding with the very little bird he’d been hoping to see. For one sweet moment her body is a soft bundle against his chest as he takes hold of her to keep her from falling, and her fathomless blue eyes meet his. They’re full of surprise that turns to wariness when she realizes who has caught her. He sets her back hastily if only to avoid watching her recoil from him.

“Pardons, my lord,” she says. “I ought to have been paying better attention. Please excuse me.”

“Where are you off to, girl?” he demands. Now that she is here he cares nothing for the preparations he needs to make. He’ll see her safe to wherever she’s going, whether she likes it or not. (Most like not.)

“The godswood, to pray for the King.” The expressionless mask of her face is flawless, and the lie believable. In fact, by the spark of rage in her eyes he suspects she is not lying at all, but that her prayers for Joffrey are not for his safety.

“I’ll take you,” he tells her roughly. “It’s too late to go alone.”

She looks slightly panicked, and he cannot blame her though he wishes he could. They have not been in company together since that night two months ago when the Blackwater burned green, and she can have no high opinion of him after.

“That is not necessary,” she assures him. “The godswood is safe and peaceful at night. Do not let me keep you from your duties.”

“You’re not.” He falls into step beside her and makes it very clear she has no choice but to accept his escort.

“Thank you, my lord,” she responds, and he’s amused to detect a mutinous tone in her usually gentle voice.

“I’m no lord,” he reminds her, purely out of habit.

She compresses her full lips into a prim little line, and Sandor knows what she’s thinking. His little bird is too polite, too kind, to call him a dog, and she cannot call him by his name. He thinks he would like it if she did. She does the best she can, he knows, but he cannot help but bait her.

He does not offer his arm as they descend the stairs for he knows she will not take it. Instead, he trails just behind her, eyes drawn to the elaborate auburn braids threaded with ribbons that coil at the back of her head. The nape of her fragile neck is exposed, pale and very vulnerable. He feels strangely as though it is not for him to see, and wishes no one else could see it either. He dislikes the idea of any other man looking and longing to press his lips to the spot the way he suddenly does.

He looks away.

It is full dark in the godswood, any remaining twilight kept at bay by the canopy of trees, but the little bird knows her way well enough and he follows. There is no weirwood, of course, but there is a heart tree of some kind. He supposes she’ll kneel to it and wish her beloved king dead ten ways before breakfast. And he’ll watch her, content.

She turns to him before approaching it, the shadows of the godswood bringing out the architecture of her face, the new hollows and planes that have replaced its former youthful fullness. There is little enough of the child he first met at Winterfell so long ago there, but the maturity of her features better suits her eyes now. They became too old too quickly for her little girl’s face.

He is suddenly very aware that this could be the last time he ever sees her. She doesn't know, and wouldn't care, but he knows. There is less panic to the thought than there was the night of the Blackwater, but there is a deep melancholy, and a wish that he could express it. He doesn't.

“I thought you would leave,” she says quietly.

He’s surprised by the fact that he’s offended, nearly hurt, by her remark. It feels like a shallow cut, the kind that bleeds freely, the kind that encourages him to increase his defenses. “You’d prefer that I wait near the entrance, _my lady_?” he asks, scorn clear in his voice.

“No, I meant… Before. The night of the battle. You said you were leaving.”

“Yes,” he answers shortly.

“You didn’t.”

“No.” (She would not leave with him.)

“They say you fought like a hero when you returned,” she murmurs, and there is a softness to her voice that sets his teeth on edge. Her head is ever filled with childish stories and songs and he has never cured her of it.

“Oh yes,” he taunts harshly. “I gutted peasants and soldiers alike as well as any true knight, and sent my men back out into the flames again and again. Listened to them burn. A pretty song indeed. They’re all lies, girl, how many times have I told you?”

It’s her turn to glare at him. “Is it a lie that you returned, and fought, and won?”

“No.” 

“Then I shall think of it just as I choose. My lord.”

Sandor says nothing. He is not like to admit it but she is not wrong. He did fight like a hero, like a hero with nothing to lose, expecting to die at the end of his bloody epic. Or hoping, he still is not certain. She looks at him evenly, expectantly, but he will not tell her that.

“I’m leaving,” he tells her instead, and her delicate brows draw together in confusion.

“There is no need, truly. I can pray as long as you stay silent.”

He shakes his head. “No, not now. Well, now. Tomorrow.”

If he expects any kind of reaction, he is disappointed. (He did, he is.) The confusion leaves her expression and her face smooths out into her court mask. “Oh.”

“I’m being sent on an errand,” he elaborates, careful not to reveal any details, even though she shows no interest in his leaving at all. “Then off I go to join my _noble_ brother in the Riverlands for a time, if I can find the buggering bastard.”

Her eyes darken at the mention of Ser Gregor, and he knows she’s remembering what he told her, what he’s told no one but her. What he should not have told her.

“Surely they do not expect you to… To serve under him,” she says, and there is horror in her voice.

“I'm like to kill Gregor before I'm like to serve him. No, it’s just another errand for a dog.” His orders are unclear, and depend much on Lord Frey’s reaction to the letter in his cloak. He thinks that all details aside he will be gone for quite some time.

He does not want to be gone for quite some time.

“Then I wish you safe journey, my lord. And a safe return,” she answers formally, and he is suddenly incensed. The rage that always simmers inside of him boils over and he is filled with it. He wants to shake her. He wants none of her court mask or her courtesies, none of her pretty little falsehoods. He wants her to be human, as she was the night of the Blackwater, even if her humanity was all in her terror.

He steps forward and grabs her arm, pulling her closer than he should harder than he should. She feels delicate under his large, heavy hand, and she is frightened though less than he expects.

“Don’t chirp your little lies at me, little bird,” he snarls. “You’ll be glad to see the last of my ugly face, will probably go down on your knees before this tree every day to pray your kingly brother’s men capture and put an end to me.”

“I would never be so foolish as to pray any of my brother’s men meet you,” she retorts. “They’re in danger enough as it is.”

She’s in danger enough as it is, having said what she’s said, and she seems not to realize it, which only infuriates him further. How is he to leave her alone in the cesspit of intrigue that is King’s Landing when she is so clearly incapable of protecting herself? The fury and fear buries everything, including his pride at her faith in his battle prowess and his disbelief that she would be so unguarded. But she can’t be, she can’t be unguarded with anyone, least of all him.

“No. You’ll pray I meet them and bring you your brother’s royal head. And you’ll tell the king so, should he ask.”

Now she’s afraid, as afraid as she ought to be. He can feel it in the way she trembles, see it in the way all color drains from her already pale face. “My lord, I did not mean – please, my brother is a traitor, I wish only for his defeat. It was a jape, my lord, a poor jape. You would not tell such a pathetic jest to the king.” Her words are a statement but he knows they’re a question.

He wants to tell her she must be careful. He wants to tell her to trust no one when he is gone but he doubts she trusts him either. He wants to touch her. He rages still, but now only for her.

“And what will you give me to buy my silence?” Sandor asks, voice low and heavy.

The little bird looks at him with wide eyes. “I – another song? Will you have one?”

Shaking his head, he pulls her closer, close enough that he can see the nearly invisible freckles spangling her nose and cheeks, close enough to inhale her scent. “No. Even the one I took wasn't the one I wanted.” 

The confusion is back on her face. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t know he wants anything at all. Doesn’t see him, not really. He _wants_ her to see him, just once. Before he goes. Before he possibly does not return.

It’s not a choice he makes but suddenly his free hand is buried in the coil of braids at her nape and his mouth is pressed hard to hers. Her lips are as soft as he’s always thought they must be, smooth and delicate like rose petals, and they open like a flower too as she gasps in shock. He slides his tongue into her mouth and hopes he’s doing it right.

Her taste is impossible to define but honeyed as her voice, tangy as the lemon cakes she loves so well, and he savors it. She does not kiss him back. Frozen beneath him, she allows him to explore the warmth of her but does not reciprocate. He wonders what it would feel like if her lips moved against his, if she tasted him in turn.

He wonders if this is her first kiss, too. 

She gathers herself and pulls away, stumbling backwards in her haste. The look on her face is beyond shock. It is utter incomprehension, as though he is something she’s never seen before and cannot understand. Her mouth is slightly swollen from the pressure of his lips on hers.

“I – ” he begins, uncertain of what he intends to stay.

She holds up one hand, to physically prevent him from speaking, he supposes. For a moment she simply blinks at him, dazed, and then she’s walking away so swiftly he would almost call it running if she were not such a perfect lady.

The ruined braids of her elaborate coiffure trail down her back. He holds a deep blue ribbon in his hands.

Much as he mislikes the idea of her returning to her quarters alone, he does not follow her. She will not stand his company now anyway. Unsteadily, he makes his way to the heart tree and seats himself in front of it. There is a sweet sharp pain in his chest, something piercing and intense, and his heart is racing.

He raises his fingers carefully to his lips, ghosting across their surface for a moment before pulling them away as though burned. Suddenly agitated, he reaches into his cloak for the missive that has been entrusted to him. It feels heavy, hot, dangerous. The sight of it in his hands renews all the unease and guilt he’d so successfully pushed away.

Betrayal, he thinks, can only occur when there are vows sworn. No northern king has ever had an oath from his mouth, nor any Lannister either. There is only one person to whom he has ever made promises. _I could keep you safe... No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them._

She didn’t want them, but he’d made them all the same.

It is not difficult to reject the goals and concerns of the house he’s served more than half his life. It is painfully simple. If the letter is a threat to King Robb, it is a threat to the little bird, and that he cannot allow. With hardly a second thought he draws his dagger and slides it under the seal, opening the message carefully.

He reads.

He stands.

Sandor has preparations to make, if he is to leave tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This godswood is nothing like the other, and does not make him think of her.

This godswood is nothing like the other, and does not make him think of her. That one is caged as she is caged, but Riverrun’s grows free outside the walls. It feels less like an ancient site of worship and more like a pleasure garden, bright and airy as Sandor is sure it must be when the flowers are still in bloom and sunlight plays on the streams that flow through it. And yet the heart tree is a weirwood. It draws the northerners close, even during such a storm as this.

Sandor wonders idly if this unexpected piece of good luck indicates that the Old Gods favor him. Of course, he believes in neither luck nor gods of any age. Yet the sight of Robb Stark kneeling unaccompanied before the slender morose white tree tempts him, almost, to begin.

Nothing is more unbelievable than a king without a kingsguard, vulnerable and so exposed. He'd imagined many scenarios riding hell for leather the past two weeks, yet he did not plan for this. Still, he cannot waste the opportunity. Carefully he draws nearer, the better to hear the Stark boy’s prayers.

“‘Am I your brother, now and always?’” the Young Wolf intones flatly, just barely audible over the clatter of fat raindrops hitting trees and branches and earth. “That’s what he asked, father. He swore his sword to me, in victory and defeat, and I believed him. I _loved_ him. And now my real brothers are dead.”

King Robb makes a sound like a wounded animal, piercing in its grief, and Sandor experiences a brief and confusing instant of discomfort. It feels wrong somehow, witnessing this private anguish. He wonders if the little bird will react in just this way when she learns, and the feeling of wrongness intensifies. Yet he cannot withdraw. Any information he can glean this way may further his own cause, and he must grasp this chance to speak to the king without any buggering lords bannermen to cast doubt on his words.

“I’ll have his head, I swear it. His head, and Joffrey’s head, and… Gods. There are so many wrongs to avenge.” The boy’s voice is still hoarse with sorrow and heavy with a weariness beyond his years. “And I am so unequal to the task. Men I respect have crowned me, and bent their knees to me, but I know in fact they’re crowning what they see in me of _you_. You would have known Theon for the traitor he is.”

For a moment the only sound is the fall of the rain. When Robb speaks again he is much quieter, and Sandor strains to hear him. “I’ve made so many mistakes. I broke my word for love of my wife, and cost us our alliance with the Freys. I refused to exchange Jaime Lannister for Sansa and Arya, and forced mother to betray me to have her daughters returned. I fear her release of the Kingslayer will cause the loss of the Karstarks as well…” 

Sandor starts at this. He’s already chilled to the bone thanks to his hours in the freezing rain, yet still can feel the blood in his veins turn to ice at the thought of Cersei learning her brother is free. 

Weeks away, he thinks despairingly. I am weeks away from King’s Landing.

“I do not know how to be a king and be a man. But you would know, father. Please, guide me if you can.”

Robb bows his head, and Sandor springs into action. If what the boy has said about the Kingslayer is accurate, Sandor’s plans and scheming are now beyond worthless. He must know the truth of it. He is quick and silent enough, and the King in the North is ignorant of his presence until Sandor’s steel is laid along the royal throat from behind.

“One move, boy,” he rasps as the Young Wolf stiffens and looks up. “Just one, and I’ll shorten you by a head.”

“You would threaten the life of your king?” he demands, and Sandor laughs without humor.

“You’re not my king yet,” he answers grimly, “And you’re stupider than I remember, to pray unprotected. Give over your weapons, all of them." 

“Who are you?” Robb asks, reaching for his short sword.

Sandor cuts him. Not hard and not deep, but enough to remind the boy to be wise, if he can. “Slowly. Very slowly. Yes.” The king lays his sword carefully on the ground beside him, and Sandor kicks it away far less carefully. It glides across the waterlogged grass and comes to rest against the trunk of a tree too far away to be of concern. “Now your daggers.”

“I don’t-”

“Thought Starks had too much honor to lie,” Sandor says. “Well, you do it badly. All of you. I’ll have the dagger from your boot and the dagger from your wrist. Slowly.”

The young king complies, and Sandor is satisfied. He keeps the daggers himself. Robb Stark will get them back… Or not, depending. He taps the flat of his own blade under the boy’s chin.

“Good. Get up. Walk slowly into the wood. This clearing is too exposed.” _As you are now aware_ , he does not add. “If you even think of running it’ll be the last thing you do.”

The Young Wolf stands, and Sandor follows, maneuvering his sword such that the blade is always against the king’s throat. He doesn’t do anything stupid, for which Sandor is grateful.

“Stop,” he orders when they reach the base of a large elm tree. It provides decent cover and protection from the rain, which is about the best he can expect, considering. “Now. You’re going to turn. Slowly. Look at me.”

He does, gingerly avoiding Sandor’s steel, and the expression of shock on his face when he recognizes his captor is almost comical. “The Lannister Hound,” the boy sneers. “I never took you for an assassin.”

“I never took you for a fool,” Sandor responds sharply. “Or maybe I did. Thought your new crown might have cured you of it.”

Robb glares, and with his hair wet to dark red and his eyes so blue the look reminds Sandor uncomfortably of the man’s sister. “If you’re here to kill me, get on with it.”

“I’m not,” Sandor says, feeling the scarred side of his face twist and contort with the bitter smile he allows himself.

“You have a strange way of showing it.”

“That’s as may be. Now,” he begins, voice deadly soft and quiet. “Tell me of the Kingslayer.”

“Your poor attempt at a rescue comes too late.” Sandor can feel the burned corner of his mouth twitching in displeasure. “My mother released him. The Imp had promised to exchange his brother for my sisters.”

“And this was not an exchange you were willing to make?” he demands. “You said your mother betrayed you by releasing him.”

“No. The Kingslayer was too valuable a hostage to exchange for two little girls.”

Something black and heavy rises within him, something that cannot be denied. Sandor surrenders to it and cuts him again, deeper than before. Stark flinches. His blood runs black down his throat, mingling with the rain in such a way as to make the wound seem worse than it is. Sandor thinks for just one second that he would like to watch Robb bleed out.

“Your own sisters,” he snaps, then forces his anger down. His wrath is not an asset just now. Two Stark brothers are now dead; the little bird cannot spare a third.

The king’s eyes flash. “As a brother I wish for nothing more than that my sisters be returned to me. As a king, it was not a trade I could make.”

“You’re right, you know.”

“About?” the Stark boy asks.

“What you said before. You don’t know how to be a king and be a man,” Sandor spits.

“And you would know better? Did you learn some secrets at the heels of Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name?” The Young Wolf’s voice is heavy with sarcasm.

“Oh, tending Joffrey was an education in kingship,” Sandor says. “Whatever he does, do the opposite. He would never have exchanged _you_ for _his_ sister.”

Robb has the grace to look ashamed, eyes downcast, mouth downturned. “Perhaps it was a mistake. But my mother’s actions have cost me dear as well.”

“Not as much as they’ve cost your sister.”

“Sisters. I have two.”

“You don’t know that.” Sandor takes a kind of delight in the confusion on the boy’s face, though in truth there’s nothing delightful about this situation. Yet there’s a savage joy in showing this young king just how foolish he’s been, how wasteful and selfish. “Your youngest sister hasn’t been seen since before Ned Stark lost his head, and with Jaime Lannister free your oldest sister’s life isn’t worth a damn either. Might be you have two sisters. Might be you have one…” He pauses, whispering this last: “Might be you have none, now.” 

He doesn’t like that idea at all.

Stark raises his shocked gaze to Sandor’s. “What? But Arya…”

“They weren’t like to tell you they didn’t have the youngest, were they? Lessens their leverage, doesn’t it? The way your mother did when she freed Jaime Lannister.”

The young king looks dazed with shock. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sandor responds after a moment. “I’m leaving. I have a Kingslayer to recapture, it seems.”

“’Recapture’? I don’t understand you, Clegane. Speak plainly. Why are you here? Why are you leaving? Why do you have a sword to my throat but apparently no desire to murder me where I stand?”

“Oh, I have the desire.” Sandor’s voice is flat and grim, jaw clenched tight. “And if I can’t find Jaime I may yet return to prove it.”

“You speak as though you’d prefer Jaime Lannister in my custody.”

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?" 

Sandor merely stares at the boy impassively. He knows how to make his face into a blank stone wall, inscrutable, and he does. His mind is already focused on logistics, shying away from the fear threatening to overwhelm him. “It doesn’t matter. When was the Kingslayer released? What efforts have you made to retrieve him? Have you had any reports? Tell me, and I’ll be on my way.”

“No,” Robb says, becoming somehow regal as he stiffens his spine and glares into Sandor’s face. “Lower your sword and we’ll discuss this like men.”

“Oh yes, like _men_ ,” Sandor scoffs, considering. It would be easy enough to bring the hilt of his sword down on the Stark boy’s head and make his escape. Easy enough, yes, but eventually he would come to. And send a search party after him, most like. Besides, Sandor does need whatever details he can provide if the Kingslayer is to be retrieved quickly. Speed is paramount, now. He gnashes his teeth in frustration before responding.

“Give me your word you won’t run and I’ll lower my blade,” he offers finally.

“You’d trust my word?” the king asks, and the roundness of his eyes and his furrowed brow speak eloquently of his incredulousness.

Sandor shrugs. “You’re a _Stark_.”

“On my honor as the son of Eddard Stark, you have my word that I won’t run… As long as you are not a threat to me.”

And that is fair enough. “Maybe you’re not quite the fool you look.” Sandor lowers and sheaths his sword, watching as his captive lets out a small sigh of relief and reaches up to touch the two shallow slices on his throat with a wince.

“Now,” the Young Wolf says after a moment, and Sandor can hear the ring of authority, that tone Joffrey has never been able to master. “You will tell me why you are here.”

“No,” Sandor snarls, and though he no longer has the boy at the point of his sword, his hand still rests on his pommel in a subtle threat. “You will tell me all you know of the Kingslayer’s whereabouts, and I will be gone.”

“I’ve told you much already,” the king says, “While you have told me nothing.”

Sandor scowls, realizing he is not like to get any information from the boy without providing any in exchange, little though he likes it.

“I came here to offer you my sword,” he admits, then feels foolish for doing so.

Robb Stark’s laugh is surprised, but deep and genuine, and Sandor’s scowl deepens. “You’d be wise to accept it, boy.”

The king suppresses his mirth with apparent difficulty. “By the Old Gods and the New, what poor scheme is this? Does Lord Tywin truly think me so stupid as to accept you? You’re the Hound. You’re renowned as much for your loyalty as for your brutality.”

“Yes,” Sandor acknowledges. “Which is why if Lord Tywin were to send anyone it wouldn’t be me. He’s too wily for that.”

The Young Wolf seems to recognize the truth of this. His eyes narrow. “I don’t understand,” he says flatly, and Sandor marvels at it. He’s known lords and kings, served them all his life. Never even once has a single one admitted he didn’t understand something.

Perhaps it’s better if he doesn’t understand, Sandor thinks, and hesitates. He isn’t certain a full disclosure of his intentions is necessary; they may change, substantially, depending on whether he can find Jaime Lannister or not.

“It might not matter,” he says at length. (He hopes it matters. Gods, does he hope.)

“And yet it might,” Robb retorts, and Sandor wants him to be right so desperately that he decides to tell the boy the truth.

“I have information vital to you and your cause. Take me into your service and I will give it to you. What’s more, I will find and deliver the Kingslayer as proof of my fealty.”

“And how should I trust that fealty?” the king asks. “You’ve served the Lannisters all your life. You guarded the bastard king himself. You have their favor even now, even after being dismissed from the Kingsguard.”

“And what of it?” Sandor demands testily.

“You betray them, though you owe them much. How do I know you won’t betray me in turn?”

“Because I will swear my sword to you,” he says reluctantly, the very idea of it abhorrent to him. Yet it cannot be helped. “I will swear it to you, as I never did to them.”

Robb blinks, clearly surprised. Sandor supposes his hatred of vows and refusal to make any is well-known. The boy is intrigued. “You swore no vows yet were faithful for quite some time. Why betray them now? What do you want? Land, titles, gold?”

Oh, Sandor has reasons enough. He begins with the most obvious one. “Tell me: would you ever take a man like my brother into your service?”

“Like the Mountain That Rides?” Robb asks in disbelief, face twisted with distaste. “A man who raped and murdered a princess, who has raped and murdered madly ever since? Who is currently raping and murdering his way through the Riverlands?”

“Yes. Him. Ser Gregor,” Sandor spits the hated name. “Lord Tywin keeps him as a pet, values him for his atrocities. Would you accept him?”

“Are you not Lord Tywin’s pet as well, valuable for the same reasons?”

Sandor inhales sharply against the flood of rage he cannot loose. It is almost a fair question from one who knows no better. Yet he has killed lesser men for less still. And it is galling, the fact so many believe him to be his brother come again. “I am many things, but I am at least better than Gregor. Would you accept him? Not me, him.”

“I’d accept him gladly,” Robb states, surprising Sandor for a brief moment before continuing. “On his knees, head bowed, waiting for my blade to strike it off. Atrocities are not valuable to me. They are to be punished.”

“Take me into your service,” Sandor repeats. “And I will bring you his head.”

Robb considers him for a long moment. “It’s not enough. You would become a turncloak just for the chance to become a kinslayer? No. _What do you want_? You haven’t answered to my satisfaction, and until you can, I believe we’re finished.”

“What you offered,” Sandor insists. “Land, titles, gold.”

“No. It’s not. Enough,” the boy snaps, and he is tenacious, Sandor will give him that. “You’re from the Westerlands. Any land I could give you, any titles I could give you, would be in the north, and I remember how you southroners hated it. You won my father’s tourney, so you have little need of gold. What do you want, Hound? I will not ask again.”

“My desires are simple,” Sandor says at length. “My brother’s blood on my hands. A keep of my own, with no memories of Gregor; enough gold to maintain it and spend freely, both. A pretty highborn wife perhaps.”

“All things the Lannisters could give you,” Robb points out.

Not all, Sandor thinks but does not say. Instead he shrugs. “Maybe, but they won’t. Gregor is too useful to them, and there are very few things I want more than to be the one to finish him.”

In fact, there is only one.

“You claim the Kingslayer’s freedom is a danger to my sister,” the king retorts. His frustration is clear in the set of his jaw, the steel in his spine. Sandor can picture the boy walking away now, too irritated to bargain at all. “You claim you will bring him to me. But you refuse to tell me what you want in exchange. You’re wasting time. Yours, mine and Sansa’s.”

 _Little bird._ The sound of her name forces him to picture her, the taste of her, the subtle darkening of her lips after he kissed her, the heavy fall of her hair down her back after he destroyed her braids with his hands. He carries the ribbon he stole, though not like a favor over his heart. He keeps it safe rolled up with his sleeping pad in order that his own scent not replace the delicate hint of hers.

It is only a single moment of weakness, yet the Young Wolf peers at him intently, and Sandor realizes that he may have let his impassive expression slip at the worst possible time.

“Sansa…” Robb repeats, poised on the edge of an epiphany.

Oh, bugger it.

Sandor squares his shoulders and meets the king’s gaze evenly. “Yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memory of Robb Stark reeling from the impact of that word is still enough to twist Sandor’s lips into his distorted version of a smile.

Even unarmed, even seated, even surrounded by the three closest advisors of the King in the North – all standing, all armed themselves – he finds himself amused. _Yes._ The memory of Robb Stark reeling from the impact of that word is still enough to twist Sandor’s lips into his distorted version of a smile. A gruesome sight, he knows, but neither the advisors nor the king see it. They are discussing quietly amongst themselves, paying little attention to their _guest_. Their guards are similarly oblivious. They see him as no threat with no sword.

It is a mistake on their part. With the arrogance of the truly gifted he knows he could have steel in his hands and the Stark boy on his back in a pool of his own blood before the distracted advisors could even draw their swords. He would not be like to survive it, of course, yet there are always those with enough hatred to take a man’s life even at the expense of their own. 

Obviously he is not one of them, at least not when it comes to the young king. Matters will not deteriorate to that extent. So he waits. He does not know what they’re waiting for, but he has experience enough with it. He listens to the roaring of the rain outside, hears it pound relentlessly against the stone walls of the keep, and continues smirking, remembering.

 _The Young Wolf looks at him the same way the little bird did after he kissed her. There is no hint of comprehension in his face, eyes blank, jaw slack, as though Sandor had just kissed_ him _. His expression changes as the boy processes the affirmative and its implications. It morphs slowly from dazed to uncertain to dangerous as it dawns on him that Sandor knows his sister, has spent time with her, been in company with her more in the last two years than her own family._

_He moves swiftly enough that Sandor is surprised when the boy’s fingers clutch at the collar of his jerkin. With a sharp tug he finds himself eye to Tully blue eye with Robb Stark. He is reckless and stupid, yes, but brave, and Sandor is grudgingly impressed._

_“If you have hurt her, if you have touched one hair on her head, I swear by the old gods and the new nothing will prevent me from giving you the death you’ve earned,” he spits. “Our way is the old way… I will swing the sword and no other.”_

_For one brief moment, Sandor longs to challenge him to try. The young king is brash, speaking to him in a way older and wiser men do not dare, and the boy’s accusatory tone enrages him. Worse, it kindles a sudden and intense heavy ache in his chest, an ache he now recognizes as guilt for true. He stood there in his white cloak and let them beat her, saw her stripped before the court and did nothing, nothing. The knowledge hurts – it burns – and he copes as well as he always does, lashing out at the cause of his distress._

_“_ Now _you have a care for her?” he demands scathingly, flinging Stark away with enough force that he almost stumbles to the ground. Sandor glares down at the king standing unsteadily before him, bedraggled, drenched to the bone and so full of supposedly righteous indignation. Gods but he wants to wipe that self-satisfied anger from the boy’s face. “Now she’s precious to you? What of this past year or more that you’ve been safe with your bannermen, wearing your crown and playing the bloody game of godsdamned thrones?”_

_“I’ve been waging a war,” Robb retorts coldly. “I’ve hardly been safe.”_

_“Safer than she is.” The Young Wolf freezes, pinned by those words, and Sandor stares him down, willing him to understand how his quest for a crown has harmed the sister he supposedly loves. “If you had any care for her at all you’d have marched your entire buggering army down the Kingsroad. You’d have rescued her the way she dreams you will.”_

_“What have they done to her?” the king asks at length. Water runs down his face such that he could almost be crying, and for a moment his voice is as it was earlier before the heart tree, vulnerable and young. For a moment Sandor pities him, and wonders how to explain. But then Stark’s face hardens once more. “What have_ you _done to her? Tell me!”_

_Sandor narrows his eyes and shakes his head, lowering his voice so that it takes on the softness of a shadowcat’s footfalls, sleek and dangerous. “I’ll tell you nothing. I’ll bring her to you, and she’ll tell you herself what I’ve done.”_

_“You’re despicable,” the boy responds heatedly. Sandor can’t help but wonder if he’d say so if he knew how his sister had survived the mob in King’s Landing with her life and honor both intact. “And I will trade my sister not for your brother, nor the Kingslayer, nor all the gold of Casterly Rock. Not for anything.”_

_His words are vehement, impassioned, and he’s a Stark so Sandor knows he believes what he says. But he’s wrong, of course he’s wrong._

_“Liar,” Sandor says with a bitter, biting laugh. “You’d trade her for an alliance with some buggering high lord, whatever alliance you feel gives you most benefit.”_

_Frowning, Robb shakes his head. “That’s not-”_

_“That’s the truth, we both know it. And I tell you, boy, I may not be a lord at all, but right now allying with me is your only hope of surviving your bloody war.”_

Suddenly, the heavy wood and iron doors of the council chamber fly open. Sandor blinks, dragged from his reverie, and is surprised to see two women, rather than knights or lords, enter. The first is slender and dark with almond-shaped eyes and a strong nose, not beautiful but striking, and the other is Catelyn Stark. With a worried expression the dark one makes her way to the Young Wolf. His equally worried expression softens briefly as he clasps her hands in his.

Lady Stark wastes no time with tender greetings. She strides across the room with all the fury of the storm outside. Her deep red hair absorbs the candlelight rather than reflecting it, and Sandor cannot help but think of the way the little bird’s hair shines. But then Lady Catelyn slaps him hard across the disfigured half of his face, the loud crack echoing throughout the room, and he forces himself to pay attention. He scowls at her.

“What was that for?” He does not mention that his thickened scars feel nothing.

“For my son.” Another slap, this time on his other cheek, and it does hurt. “For my husband.” Slap (no feeling). “For my daughter.” She raises her hand to strike him a fourth time, for the youngest girl he supposes, but this one is aimed for the good side of his face. Sandor grasps her wrist and holds her still.

The singing of steel freed from multiple scabbards fills the room, and Sandor glances up to see the king’s three advisors, the king himself and the bulk of his guard with swords drawn.

“What?” he demands, though he releases her. She rubs her wrist and Sandor hopes he hasn’t bruised her too badly; it will not help his cause. He thought he had been delicate about it. “I’m meant to sit here and let her hit me?”

“If my lady mother wills it, yes,” Robb says with a shrug, nodding to his men and sheathing his sword. They all follow suit as the boy approaches, his wife and advisors at his side.

“This is unwise,” Lady Stark says, a murderous, wild look on her face as she stares at him. “He’s nothing more than a rabid dog, sent by the Lannisters to spy on you. And you’ve invited him into your council chamber.”

Sandor is shocked by the sharp tone of her voice as she addresses her king. Her son as well, yes, but her king first and foremost, and he has never known anyone to take that tone with royalty without consequences.

Everyone shifts uneasily, and he recalls that Catelyn Stark is technically considered a traitor thanks to her release of the Kingslayer. There are undercurrents he can’t quite navigate flowing through the room, and his warrior’s instincts tell him the situation might devolve into a maelstrom shortly. Yet something happens between Stark and his mother, some wordless communication with their eyes, and all is calm once more. The proud woman stands down. 

“I understand your misgivings,” the Young Wolf says carefully. “I thought the same. But Clegane has told me enough to perhaps prove otherwise. I would have you hear what he says, and have your council. All of you,” he adds with a gracious nod to his three advisors and a gentle squeeze of his young wife’s hand.

The advisors are all known to Sandor from times past, and are all hostile to varying degrees. Greatjohn Umber has an air of self-contained fury while Edmure Tully has hardly bothered to contain his own. Only the Blackfish does not burn with rage, though he is certainly not cordial. His face has a shrewd, sharp look to it, a wise look in truth, and the young king mirrors it. The Queen in the North is shrewd as well, he can see, and strong. It has been said that Robb Stark broke his word for a foreign commoner. Yet Sandor knows royalty and she carries herself as a queen. 

“Tell them,” the king prompts, eyebrows raised. Sandor knows the boy doesn’t quite believe him, doesn’t quite trust him, not yet, but he’s willing to be swayed which is more than Sandor himself expected, in truth. “Tell them how you’ve forsaken the Lannisters.”

There is a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh throughout the room, each advisor and the guards reacting to Stark’s words, and Sandor has no chance to speak before Edmure Tully protests.

“The Hound is their most loyal man,” he cries, just as though Sandor were not sitting directly in front of him. “He’s here on orders, you know he must be!”

“Clegane?”

“The boy speaks true,” Sandor states, sounding sulky even to his own ears. “I’ve left the Lannisters and come to offer the North my sword. And the North would do well to take the bloody thing.”

“The _boy_ is a king, dog,” the Greatjohn snarls, hulking over him. The man is large enough, almost, to intimidate him, and more than fierce enough. “You’ll refer to him as ‘His Grace’ or you’ll regret it.”

“As you say.” 

“Why?” Brynden Tully asks, and Sandor wonders sourly how many times he’ll have to answer that question. “You are from the Westerlands. You are known for your loyalty to the Lannisters and to the Iron Throne. You have no family in the North, no allegiance to it. Why forsake the house you have served so long?”

_“And these are your terms of alliance?” the Young Wolf demands. “Your allegiance in exchange for… Sansa?”_

_Yes, gods yes, he thinks but does not say. He nods instead._

“My reasons are my own,” he growls. “His Grace knows them and has judged them worthy. Surely you’ll not contradict your king,” he adds wryly.

“You cannot be serious,” Catelyn Stark says, eyes riveted to her son, and the feel of unease, of swirling undertows, returns. It is clear by the way both Tully advisors shift and avoid one another’s eyes that they agree with her, yet cannot side with a confessed traitor against their king. “You cannot trust-”

“Mother,” King Robb bites out, all snapping teeth and wolfish threat. “You are here as a courtesy, and because I value your council. We are amongst family and trusted friends, but I have warned you not to test me.”

“How can I remain silent?! You would put your faith in this… _Dog_ and bring your kingdom to ruin. Need I remind you of the advice you refused to follow in regards to Lord Fr-”

“You will be silent," the king snaps, "or you will return to your chambers.”

The room holds its collective breath. Lady Catelyn presses her lips together so hard they turn white, and Sandor would lay odds that she is biting her inner lip, tasting her own blood. He thinks of the times he stood silent at Joffrey’s side and knows the taste is bitter.

“If His Grace accepts your motivations as valid,” the Greatjohn begins, just as though mother and son are not at each other’s throats, “I won’t question them. Unlike the bastard on the Iron Throne, my king sees true.”

“Yes,” the Blackfish hurries to agree, though his voice lacks conviction, “but there is another _why_ requiring an answer: why should we accept you? Your skill is known and proven, but you’re only one man.”

“I’m worth five,” he states, and it is a fact, not a boast.

Brynden nods in acknowledgement. “Even so. We understood from His Grace that you offer more than your sword arm.”

Sandor doesn’t deny this. “I know much about Lannister tactics and troop movements, all useful information,” he concedes. The thought that they might reject his offer and simply torture the information out of him instead brushes against him but he shoves it away. “But most of all, I have a letter.” 

“A letter?” Edmure scoffs. “You think we’ll take you on for the sake of some scratching on a piece of parchment?”

“On a sheet of vellum,” Sandor corrects mildly, and knows that says much. Vellum is dear, far too costly to be wasted on letters no matter their strategic import. There is only one man who would be so extravagant as to set correspondence to such a luxury.

Slowly, he reaches inside his jerkin for the missive. He’s kept it close and thankfully the protective oilskin he wrapped it in has kept it dry, far drier than he himself has been in some hours. With little grace he shoves it into the Lady Catelyn’s hands. She is closest, and with any luck it will keep her from delivering that final slap she owes him.

She reads it quickly, as it is not much, though couched in such terms as to require a moment of thought afterwards. He remembers leaning with his back against the false heart tree of the Red Keep’s godswood, reading the spidery scrawl twice through before comprehension dawned. He remembers the fear that struck him then, senseless fear because the little bird was safe in her cage. Yet he knew as well as anyone that she wasn’t safe there at all, and without her family she’d never be safe anywhere.

By now he’s read the hated words so many times they’re near memorized. He can almost recite them as Catelyn Stark scans the letter.

**Lord Frey –**

**We are agreed that wolves are troublesome creatures. Destroy all you may find when your daughter weds, and be assured of a fine spot for fishing in exchange. The two wolf pelts we discussed are of particular interest. Rely on the man who can best remove the skins whole, as he is eager to assist.**

**L**

Soon enough, her eyes meet his, wide and round and so very blue, blue as rivers and skies and the gaze of another. He watches and wills the woman to believe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king narrows his eyes. “Say what you wish to,” he urges, and it is damn near to a royal command… One Sandor is not stupid enough to obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All praise and glory be to Lady Cyprus, who redeemed this chapter by spotting a major error and reminding me not to be an idiot :)

Much as her daughter is Lady Catelyn in miniature, in this they are different: the little bird’s gaze is always sliding uneasily from the sight of Sandor’s face, but her lady mother will not look away. Her eyes are two pits of rage burning blue, deep as the heart of a flame, and he has seen that fire before, once, only once. Sometimes he thinks he should have let it consume the girl, should have let her teach her beloved king how to fly and fall. He wishes he could say he stopped her for her own sake, but he knows he did it for himself.

Her mother will not be stopped, he knows, and that is all to the good.

Blindly, Lady Stark presses the letter into her son’s grasp, and though her anger puts steel in her spine it also puts a tremor in her hands, one echoed in her voice.

“I knew it,” she spits, each word low and distinct, and shaking, shaking. “I _knew_ it, yet you would not be gainsaid.”

Sandor shifts uneasily in his chair, glancing from Lady Stark to the king, worried that with the tension between the two, her support might do him more harm than good. But the boy is engrossed in the letter. He’d tried valiantly enough to get hold of it before, in the godswood. Sandor had refused, unwilling both to let the rain set Lord Tywin’s ink to running and to surrender his best leverage, his best hope.

Now that Robb is reading it, Sandor knows he will believe. They all will. They must. The scheme is underhanded and horrifying and against the laws of both gods and men. In short, it is everything anyone who knows the Lannisters and Freys would expect of them.

The Young Wolf makes a sound suited to his name, almost a growl (a noise the Hound can appreciate) before slamming the sheet of vellum down on the table with such force that the wooden surface groans in protest. He turns and advances on Sandor, and the fury burning in Lady Catelyn’s eyes is kindled in her royal son’s as well… But not for the missive, not for the message. For the man seated before him.

“You go too far, dog,” the boy spits, standing tall and squaring his shoulders in a way that Sandor knows would be enough to intimidate most men. He is not most men, of course, and even seated he’s yet of a height with the king. Still, again, Sandor is unwillingly impressed by his daring – or dismayed by his stupidity, one. “I am prepared to believe much ill of the Freys, and even more of the Lannisters, but this-”

“I told you, Lord Frey is dangerous,” Lady Stark interrupts. “I _told_ you –”

“Enough!” There is such anger in his cry that his mother falls silent immediately, and Robb turns back to Sandor. “Explain yourself. Explain this. You would have us believe that our own ally would entrap us, slaughter us at a wedding meant to join our houses? In defiance of every law and custom, in defiance of guest right?”

“Do not make the same mistake your father made, _boy_ ,” Sandor responds, turning to stare the Greatjohn down when the large man draws his sword. “You can’t deny he’s behaving like one.”

“That remains to be seen, but none will slander Eddard Stark in my hearing. None, and especially not you.”

The corner of Sandor’s mouth pulls and twists in frustration at this, and at the way it’s stated, so reverently. “Even the great Lord Eddard Stark made mistakes.”

“My father was an honorable man, something you’d know nothing about,” the king retorts.

“Oh, I know about all about Ned Stark’s honor,” Sandor answers, snarling that word with all the hatred typically reserved for an insult. “I know believing in the honor of those who had none got him killed. And now you would do the same. If you think honor will limit the bounds of the vengeance Walder Frey longs to take, or the amount of gold Tywin Lannister is prepared to pay –” he trails off, stopping himself just short of finishing with “then you’re a fool”. Even as Joffrey’s favored dog such a slight would never be allowed to stand, and Stark esteems him far, far less.

The king narrows his eyes. “Say what you wish to,” he urges, and it is damn near to a royal command… One Sandor is not stupid enough to obey.

“You know well enough what I wish to say, Your Grace,” he responds. “And I know well enough not to say it. If nothing else, my time at Joff’s feet taught me that.”

The Young Wolf’s face goes tight, lips thinning. Despite the fact that no foolish words have been spoken, the boy knows he’s been insulted, even if only in Sandor’s head. But it was deftly done, he thinks, and Robb has no cause to lash out. Spinning on his heel, he stalks back to the table, grabs the letter and shoves it at Lord Umber, who, surprised, fumbles with his sword, transferring it awkwardly to his left hand before attempting to sheathe it, clumsy and inverted. He recovers and switches hands again, finally sliding it back into his scabbard with one fluid motion before receiving the missive.

Stark looks intently at the Greatjohn as he reads. “Well?” 

Umber hesitates, the single pause a silence that near shouts agreement, and Robb shuts his eyes for a brief moment. He exhales heavily before opening them and pinning Sandor with that too-blue gaze. “I appreciate your forbearance in not calling me a fool, Clegane, though we both know that you meant it,” he says, and while his voice is wrathful, Sandor does not feel endangered. “But you judge me ill if you think I am too proud to receive the council and support of those I value. I will hear from my advisors before making a decision, as I should. And I will hear from you,” he adds, wryly.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sandor responds, and the words are sharp as broken glass in his mouth, jagged and painful to speak. Yet he knows they are necessary. He’s humbled himself before kings often enough to understand that at least.

“Explain,” the King in the North orders. “Explain this to me.”

“Respectfully,” Brynden Tully adds, smirking as he takes the sheet of vellum from the Greatjohn. He does not read it himself yet, merely passes it to his nephew, who receives it eagerly.

“What’s to explain? You understand it well enough. Tywin offers Lord Frey Riverrun for nothing more than the cost of lives he already has incentive to take. It’s a fair bargain, one many and more would accept gladly.”

The boy narrows his eyes at this. “And you? Would you accept a bargain such as this _gladly_?”

Sandor narrows his eyes in return, scowling. “Not gladly or any other way at all. I like my killing clean, and close, and personal. But the Lannisters… They’re not so straightforward. They care more for the cleanliness of their hands, and don’t mind their killing dirty.”

“Gods,” Edmure breathes as he finishes reading. “This is more than dirty. They think to make my wedding into a massacre. And what of this? ‘The man who can best remove the skins whole’? Surely he can only mean Lord Bolton.”

“Perhaps,” the Blackfish says, finally examining the document as the king turns to Lady Stark.

“What is your council, Mother? I silenced you before but now is the time to be heard.” Sandor marvels a little at that, at the fact that the words are almost an apology.

“I told you from the start that Lord Walder would hold you to your word,” the woman begins, and there is a hint of accusation in her tone, for which Sandor cannot blame her. “He could not, and this is exactly the kind of revenge he’d be most likely to take. I believe the Hound, gods help me.”

The boy nods once, slowly, then turns to the Greatjohn, who needs no prompting. “The Freys are weaselly bastards, proud and greedy. The Lord of the Crossing will choose Lannister gold over his own honor any day.”

Sandor snorts quietly. He’s witnessed time and again the ease with which men sell their very souls for Lord Tywin’s coin. He’s done it himself, time and again.

Edmure Tully speaks next. “Lord Frey is a fool if he accepts me for his daughter in your stead, Robb. Your Grace. I dislike the man, but he is not a fool. As for the Boltons… Roose has lost many battles as of late, our loyal men dying, and why? Lord Bolton is not incompetent and yet…”

“He is a cold man,” Robb’s young queen says, and Sandor had forgotten she was there at all, she’s been so unobtrusive. It is a useful skill for a woman, even more so for one who hopes to help her royal husband rule. Her voice is low, and sweet, and deceptively soft, quiet but steely. “I can believe this of him, yes. Easily.”

“Too easily, perhaps.” The Blackfish is now in possession of the letter, but he is steady, never quick to burn with anger or anything else. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I still believe this could be an elaborate Lannister plot to sow mistrust within our ranks.”

A muscle twitches in Sandor’s jaw, and he can feel the first twinges of a headache making themselves known just behind his eyes. Brynden is a brilliant strategist, and it is no surprise that he sees the situation from all angles, but Sandor is not pleased to have him opposing the truth of the plot that’s been uncovered. He has the king’s blood, his ear and his trust, none of which Sandor is ever like to have himself – save perhaps the first on his hands if he cannot make the boy believe.

“It could be, but it’s not,” he says, and it is all he has to say. He has nothing more than his letter and his word, and he knows what his word is worth to these northerners. No pretty speech is going to convince them, even if he thought himself capable of making one. (He doesn’t. He isn’t.)

“If we knew _why_ –” the Blackfish begins, but Robb Stark holds up his hand and the room falls immediately silent. Sandor tries to imagine Joffrey accomplishing the same feat, and knows he could, but the silence would be different. It would be tense and fearful, not respectful as this new quiet is.

“The whys of it matter little in this,” the king says, eyes fixed on his great-uncle. “In your heart, in your gut, what do you believe?”

“I do not trust it. More information is needed before a decision can be made, information we do not have. Based on what we know at this moment… No. All we know of the Hound is that he’s vicious and loyal. It’s far more likely that he’s here at his master’s behest than against it.”

“Thank you for your candor,” Stark says, and Sandor feels himself relax without ever realizing he’d been tense. The boy’s words are not ones that speak of utter certainty; he has not made a decision, he has not been swayed by the single dissenter. Sandor is pleased for a moment until he is forced to acknowledge that Stark has not been swayed by those who have put their trust in the Lannister’s dog, either.

He levels an even look at Sandor, his expression unreadable, before scanning the room, his eyes pausing on each advisor in turn. “Thank you _all_ for your candor. But the hour grows late and I know you must long for your beds; you may go. We will gather together in the morning to determine what actions must be taken.”

It is a dismissal, though graciously worded, and Sandor watches as the king bids his council farewell – a clasping of arms for the men, a distant embrace for his lady mother and a gentle brush of royal lips across a noble brow for his lady wife. Then the Greatjohn and Brynden Tully escort the Queen in the North and Lady Stark from the chamber, trailed by Edmure and the guards, and Sandor is alone with the Young Wolf once more.

The hollow slamming of the heavy wooden door echoes through the room, and he pins Sandor with an intense, searching look.

“Are you in love with my sister?”

Sandor gapes, as shocked as he’s ever been in his life. He supposes he ought not to be; gods know the little bird had her head stuffed with romantic fiction throughout her childhood, and it makes sense that her elder brother would have been told the same lies. The very predicament His Grace finds himself in now with the Freys is proof of his belief in them. Still, he knows not how the king could possibly imagine Sandor might harbor the same weakness. So he does the only thing he can think of and laughs, an unpleasant raspy noise that vibrates deep in his chest and high in his throat until tears of mirth gather (but do not fall).

Robb Stark’s lips thin as he crosses his arms and glares. “If you’re quite finished… You will answer my question.”

“It’s not a serious question, surely,” Sandor says, and he can feel his scars pulling tight along his cheekbone and jawline as he smiles. “I am no woman, nor a knight from any tale.”

“No, you are not that,” the king agrees, thoughtful. “Yet it is the only explanation that makes any sense. You’ve given up everything just to have her. It wasn’t until my uncle Blackfish asked why –”

“I thought you said the whys of it matter little?”

“And now I say they matter much,” he counters. “Answer me, Clegane. Why are you so willing to turn your back on all you’ve known, if not for love?”

Sandor’s smile has faded to a smirk, lips quirking slightly, twitching at the burned corner as always. “You said it yourself. To _have_ her. I know you’re her kin, yet surely you can imagine what a man might want with her?”

The ends of Stark’s mouth turn down in disgust. “That is not a thought you will ever express again in my presence, Clegane.”

“You asked, and I am never like to lie if I don’t have to.” He remembers her then, his first glimpse of her at Winterfell, his last glimpse of her in the godswood, her delicate form in his arms the day of the riot and the day he left. And always, always, her hair burning like a beacon, or like the only fire he’d never need fear. _Little Bird._ There is no hiding his longing when he speaks again. “She is the price of my allegiance because she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I want her.”

“I can’t give her to you,” the boy says quietly, and Sandor freezes.

“What did you say?” His voice is low and dangerous and he thinks suddenly that the king has made a mistake sending his guards away, for all that Sandor is unarmed. What need has he of sharp steel when his strong arms are more than enough to break a single royal neck?

“I can’t give her to you. Not now, not outright. I can’t promise you anything.”

Sandor draws near to Robb, looming over him and letting him feel the sheer height and breadth of the man he thinks to deny. “You knew my price before I surrendered the letter… It is late to be changing your mind, boy.”

“My sister is a princess, Clegane,” Stark snaps. “She is my heir until Talisa bears my child. Do you think my bannermen would suffer her to be made the Hound’s bitch? To be pawed over by the Lannister dog?” In keeping with his persona, Sandor growls, but Stark stands admirably firm. “I can’t _give_ her to you, not even in exchange for what you’ve given me.”

“Then what?” Sandor demands, frustrated and furious. He can feel his heart racing, his blood pounding in his ears, and he wants to hit something. Someone. The someone nearest to him, in fact. “You must give me something and she is all I want!”

“I can give you a chance,” the king says. “A chance, nothing more. If you were to do all that you’ve promised – Bring me the Kingslayer, kill your brother, prevent this bloody massacre the Freys plan – You could win much. Lands, titles, gold… Respect.”

“None of which I bloody care for!”

“No, perhaps not. But with those things, you’d have the standing to marry a Princess in the North.”

“I don’t want to marry a buggering Princess in the godsdamned North,” Sandor growls. “I just want –”

“You want Sansa Stark of House Stark,” her brother says, “and it amounts to the same thing, now. Don’t glare at me like that, Clegane. Even if I’d never been crowned, you’d never have been a match for her and you know it. This chance is more than you should ever have thought to expect.”

It is, really, more yet not enough. Snarling, he clamps his large hand on the Young Wolf’s shoulder, yanks him hard and near.

“Swear it,” Sandor orders. He can feel muscle and bone, solid enough beneath a tunic fit for royalty, yet breakable enough too. He squeezes precisely as hard as necessary for it to be painful but not injurious. Robb winces. “Swear that when I have brought you the Kingslayer and my brother, and delivered you from the Freys, she will be mine.”

The boy shakes his head. “No,” he says, somehow managing not to cry out when Sandor’s fingers bite into his flesh, digging under his collarbone. They would snap like twigs, and both men know it, but the king’s face remains set, blank, though he blanches. “I will not swear to what I cannot uphold. But I give you my word that you will be richly rewarded for every victory you win in my name. Should you acquire enough honors that my bannermen will not revolt at the thought of their king’s sister at your side… Then you will have her. I swear it.”

Sandor leans close, eyes locked on Stark’s and narrowed viciously. “I am no Lord Frey but I will hold you to your word just the same, _Your Grace_. Cross me in this and you’ll wish I’d kept my mouth shut and allowed Tywin Lannister’s trap to close on you… And when you have suffered sufficiently, I will have her still in the end. Believe that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> squidproquo-ink.tumblr.com


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